The final night is doing what final nights do best: making everyone suddenly honest because there is no tomorrow left to hide behind. The Scarecrow finally asked the Magnated for his dance, Pale Thorn and the Tempter have apparently decided subtlety is optional, and Scarface managed the astonishing feat of apologizing to Madame Voleur without immediately ruining it. As for myself, I arrived dressed as though the atmosphere had become hostile and was promptly rewarded with a Debonair who saw every warning sign and elected to dance closer anyway. Charming. The masks are thinning, the cards are being shown, and everyone appears desperate to finish whatever little games they started before the curtain falls. I cannot complain. I have always been rather fond of watching a room discover, all at once, that it has been sailing toward port much faster than expected. #OutGlutMasquerade
